Slightly sweet will not interfere*

The tragic tale of a shattered coffee cup. Or, how Ivan and I quarrelled (with apologies to Tolstoy**) and how he got revenge

Part One

January 2006, Lviv, Smashna Plitka. At the time one of my favourite cafés.

My sister was visiting and the two of us were joined by Lesya, the Ukrainian girl I was going out with at the time. She was lovely enough, but right from the get-go, there was something about her my sister didn’t quite like. The two of them didn’t get on naturally and I could tell there was going to be a little tête-à-tête of some sort.

One of the things I loved about this café was the coffee cups, resplendent in their shimmering white, with French verses written around the side in a soft blue. I’m not sure what was so special about them, but right then and there I decided that I wanted to take one home with me. So my sister duly obliged with my request and attempted to procure one from the waitress. I was going to ask for it myself, but I was cut off before making an offer.

Now, in a theme I’ve taken up ad nauseam on these pages, customer service in these parts isn’t always up to scratch. That was hurdle number one.

Hurdle number two was that my sister spoke exactly zero words of Ukrainian and the waitress spoke no English.

Hurdle number three was Lesya. When she sensed a bit of competition, she went in for the kill. The gloves were now off, and the battle royale commenced. We had the first catfight on our hands.

My poor sister didn’t have a hope in hell. Her gesticulations and attempts to mime what she was after never stood a chance. Sensing the perfect opportunity to one up her, Lesya intervened and took over where my sister floundered. Still, she had quite a battle on her hands. She pleaded, begged, promised God knows what. At first she gave up. Then she got up and bounded over to the bar, while my sister and I watched from afar. My sister began to stew, sensing that she was going to come away with the cup, and sure enough, she did. It wasn’t easy: there was a lot of intense negotiation and to this day I’ve got no idea how much money changed hands.

My sister was livid. If she didn’t like Lesya before, she loathed her now.

But I got my cup, so I was happy.

I split up with Lesya a couple of weeks later.

Part Two

Summer 2006, Derry, New Hampshire. At home with my parents.

My sister was living at home at the time, along with her beloved little cat Ivan, who she had adopted whilst at university in Miami. He was a big feisty bully who liked picking on the other cats. He also liked picking on me. I was able to pet him every now and again, but he was awfully moody and only liked being fussed over by my sister. I usually maintained my distance.

One August morning, Ivan was in a particularly foul mood. He’d already launched a tirade against poor Herman***, an all-white cat who used to get bullied by everyone, and then he went after Annabel (aka The Bowling Ball), who was one of my favourites, making her tale bleed. I wasn’t too happy and scolded him severely. He didn’t like being told off.

A wee while later, I was making my way into the kitchen, Lviv coffee cup, full to the brim, in hand. Ivan had been lurking, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He was waiting behind the fridge, and as I entered the kitchen, he leapt out, slashing my calf with his paw. The suddenness and ferocity of the attack caused an involuntary spasm through my veins, causing me to relinquish my grip on the cup, sending into tumbling to the floor. It shattered into pieces, and coffee went everywhere. The vitriol which I then let rip was truly something to behold. I’m not sure if cats can cackle, but I swear I heard Ivan snickering to himself as he slunk away.

The coffee cup which I loved so much was no more. It had lasted around 8 months.

I vowed to return to Lviv one day, just to get another one. I wouldn’t let Ivan get the last laugh.

Of course, my sister was angry at me for yelling at Ivan, but then she too chuckled and congratulated Ivan on his efforts. I was left with little doubt that the two of them were in cahoots.

Part Three

Spring, 2007. Riga, Canterbury and New Hampshire.

Sadly, this is where the tale turns tragic.

Ivan was a unique cat in many ways. His general feistiness and dislike of other cats and some people were explained by my sister as being an emotional behavioural disorder of some sort.

In the early spring, Ivan suddenly wasn’t well, acting in a way healthy cats shouldn’t. My sister was living in Canterbury, and I was in Riga. Ivan was being cared for by our parents.

After a few rounds of tests, poor little Ivan was diagnosed with a brain tumour. It goes without saying that this was a rough time for my sister. To say she felt helpless being so far away from her little baby boy would be an understatement.

Options were discussed and it was decided to attempt to give Ivan a new lease of life by operating. In retrospect, this might not have been the wisest decision, but who thinks straight when it comes to such matters? From my part of the world, I offered up what sympathy and advice I could, but I hardly knew what the best option would have been.

We never had a chance to find out. Ivan passed away just before the operation, and before my sister was able to get home in time to properly say goodbye. Just days before this, I had had my ribs cracked by a Russian bouncer and was in horrendous physical pain. It wasn’t a good time for any of us.

As far as the coffee cup was concerned, which up until this time I had still not got over, I reckoned it was time to forgive and forget, and let Ivan have his pie in the sky. I imagined he was looking down on me from kitty cat heaven with a smirk on his face.

But time eventually heals all wounds. And while my sister still dearly misses her wee Ivan, with the passage of time, I’ve rediscovered my thirst for revenge. Ivan may have destroyed my cup, and I’ll let him have that victory, but I still had it in my mind to get another one day.

And then last summer, I finally had my chance.

Part Four

June 2010, Lviv. Smashna Plitka.

Towards the end of my summer travels, I found myself back in Lviv for the first time in four years. The city’s café scene had changed so much that it wasn’t until the final day of my six days in the city that I made my way to Smashna Plitka (and yes, I am aware of how apt the name of the place is considering what later happened; it translates roughly as ‘juicy gossip’).

I didn’t think it would be that much of a problem.

Let me cut right to the chase and end the suspense: I didn’t get the cup. I pleaded and cajoled them every which I could, but they were steadfast in their refusal and wouldn’t budge. The language barrier was fairly insurmountable: they insisted on speaking Ukrainian while I floundered away with my lousy Russian. At first, I made a polite enquiry but then went on to invoke their sympathy, explaining as best I could the story of Ivan and how badly my sister wanted this cup to honour his memory and how much it meant to me as her brother to get her this cup. But no.

Seeing my dejection, the little old babushka employed as a cleaner came over to my table to tell me that this same cup was available in one of the shops in a shopping centre just across the road. So off I went in search of this cup. I looked in every nook and cranny but it was all to no avail. I trudged back to Smashna Plitka intending to play hard ball.

I was a bit cheeky at first, attempting to get two cups. I offered 100 hryvna ($12). I then offered the same amount for just one. I then doubled my offer for a mere one cup, and still they said no! When I had the audacity to suggest they could report a cup broken, the waitress said no, that she would get in trouble and have to pay for the cup.

Capitalist logic at its finest

How much would she have to pay?

’50 hryvnas’.

In other words, if she accepted my 200 hryvnas offer, she’d be pocketing 150 hryvnas! And yet she still refused.

I left the café empty-handed, with the vow that one day that cup would be mine.

That evening, in a story ever-so-briefly recounted in the Layman’s Guide last summer, I had an absolutely smashing evening with some locals, which helped to dull the pain. And no, nothing got broken.

Part Five

October 2010, Lviv, Smashna Plitka

Here we go again.

The story of how I unexpectedly found myself back in Ukraine has been told before. I’ve told myself that if I’m to fail in getting this damn cup during my stay here, then it just isn’t meant to be.

This time I enlisted the help of three of my dearest friends, Marichka, Natalka and Olga. Over the summer they’d taken me out and treated me to a grand tour of Lviv’s finest new dining establishments, but Smashna Plitka didn’t fit into the itinerary. This time it would.

I should have listened to Natalka. After again hearing the drawn-out story from start to finish (which she had already heard a million times before), she thought that nicking off with it would be the best option. It wouldn’t have been too difficult – the place was packed, and each of my friends had ordered tea in one of the cups, so we had three at our table. Surely we could stow one away and then make off quickly?

But I said no. It just wouldn’t have felt right, like a sort of hollow victory. I have no moral qualms about stealing when it can be justified, and in this case I could have made a borderline case (arguments in my favour: emotional anguish, a thirst for revenge, their brazenly insouciant attitude to my feelings).

So it was up to Marichka to make her way to the bar to get the cup. She must have spent 20 minutes arguing and pleading. At one point she looked over with a coy smile and gave us the thumbs-up signal – we began rejoicing in victory, applauding and backslapping one another, relieved that we didn’t have to commit a crime.

But alas…the final answer was no. Apparently the waitress had given her approval, for what sum of money I do not know, only to be overruled at the last minute by someone with more authority.

You win again, Ivan.

Part Six

March 2011, Lviv, Smashna Plitka

Back in Lviv once more, there was no way I wasn’t going to try this one again.

I was joined over a long holiday weekend by erstwhile Layman’s Guide contributor and influential mentor the G-Man, who so kindly graced me with his presence for a few epic, fun-filled days of bon mots and acerbic wit.

But he declined to join me on my latest sojourn to Smashna Plitka, opting to let his fils rebelle go it alone while he rested up at the hotel for the evening’s entertainment, so I enlisted the help of dear Svetlana, also visiting with some friends from Kyiv for the weekend. She ditched her friends and instead spent one of her days with us. She would now have her chance to help me with my vengeance.

We plotted our move. Stealing was out, as the place was sparsely populated, and so Svetlana dutifully made her way to the bar. For a minute, I thought I smelled the sweet scent of victory. The cup was in her hands, but from the dejected, forlorn look on her face, I could tell that she had been denied, and was merely slowly examining the cup in her hands, probably wondering what it was that made it so special. It’s unattainability, perhaps?

She was thus unsuccessful, despite a valiant, inspired effort. She felt like she had let me down, but I was proud of her and lauded the attempt.

Apparently, according to the waitress, lots of people come in and ask to buy the cups, and they only have 15 remaining in stock and are considered irreplaceable.

This time, at least, I wanted to commemorate the moment when we almost snatched what should rightfully be mine, with a photo. Yet even that proved difficult. When Svetlana asked for the cup back, the waitress became suspicious and was reluctant to hand it over.

Though she relented and we got our photo, the ultimate result was the same: defeat, yet again.

Then it suddenly struck me. The only possible solution to this, the only way to fully heal the wounds and seal the story would be for my sister to get the cup. That has to be it, the perfect symmetry to the tale. She will be the one to get it, by hook or by crook.

Let’s just hope that those remaining 15 cups last until her next visit.

You may be laughing now, comrade, but my eventual victory will be sweet

within our grasp…so, so close, yet so faraway…

* © 2011, Svetlana

** How the Two Ivans Quarrelled, Leo Tolstoy

 *** Technically his name was Zach, but I always thought he looked more like a ‘Herman’. He was all white, after all.